Crimen and Punishment (1)

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Crime and
Punishment
Fyodor Dostoevsky
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PART I
CHAPTER I
On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a
young man came out of the garret in which he
lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as
though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.
He had successfully avoided meeting his land-
lady on the staircase. His garret was under the
roof of a high, five-storied house and was more
like a cupboard than a room. The landlady who
provided him with garret, dinners, and atten-
dance, lived on the floor below, and every time
he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen,
the door of which invariably stood open. And
each time he passed, the young man had a sick,
frightened feeling, which made him scowl and
feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his
landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.
This was not because he was cowardly and
abject, quite the contrary; but for some time
past he had been in an overstrained irritable
condition, verging on hypochondria. He had
become so completely absorbed in himself, and
isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meet-
ing, not only his landlady, but anyone at all. He
was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties of his
position had of late ceased to weigh upon him.
He had given up attending to matters of practi-
cal importance; he had lost all desire to do so.
Nothing that any landlady could do had a real
terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs,
to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant
gossip, to pestering demands for payment,
threats and complaints, and to rack his brains
for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie—no, rather
than that, he would creep down the stairs like a
cat and slip out unseen.
This evening, however, on coming out into the
street, he became acutely aware of his fears.
"I want to attempt a thing like that and am frigh-
tened by these trifles," he thought, with an odd
smile. "Hm... yes, all is in a man's hands and he
lets it all slip from cowardice, that's an axiom. It
would be interesting to know what it is men are
most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a
new word is what they fear most.... But I am
talking too much. It's because I chatter that I do
nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter because I
do nothing. I've learned to chatter this last
month, lying for days together in my den think-
ing... of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going
there now? Am I capable of that? Is that seri-
ous? It is not serious at all. It's simply a fantasy
to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a
plaything."
The heat in the street was terrible: and the air-
lessness, the bustle and the plaster, scaffolding,
bricks, and dust all about him, and that special
Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are
unable to get out of town in summer—all wor-
ked painfully upon the young man's already
overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench
from the pot-houses, which are particularly
numerous in that part of the town, and the
drunken men whom he met continually, al-
though it was a working day, completed the
revolting misery of the picture. An expression
of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a mo-
ment in the young man's refined face. He was,
by the way, exceptionally handsome, above the
average in height, slim, well-built, with beauti-
ful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he
sank into deep thought, or more accurately
speaking into a complete blankness of mind; he
walked along not observing what was about
him and not caring to observe it. From time to
time, he would mutter something, from the
habit of talking to himself, to which he had just
confessed. At these moments he would become
conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a
tangle and that he was very weak; for two days
he had scarcely tasted food.
He was so badly dressed that even a man ac-
customed to shabbiness would have been
ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In
that quarter of the town, however, scarcely any
shortcoming in dress would have created sur-
prise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Mar-
ket, the number of establishments of bad char-
acter, the preponderance of the trading and
working class population crowded in these
streets and alleys in the heart of Petersburg,
types so various were to be seen in the streets
that no figure, however queer, would have
caused surprise. But there was such accumu-
lated bitterness and contempt in the young
man's heart, that, in spite of all the fastidious-
ness of youth, he minded his rags least of all in
the street. It was a different matter when he
met with acquaintances or with former fellow
students, whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at
any time. And yet when a drunken man who,
for some unknown reason, was being taken
somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a
heavy dray horse, suddenly shouted at him as
he drove past: "Hey there, German hatter"
bawling at the top of his voice and pointing at
him—the young man stopped suddenly and
clutched tremulously at his hat. It was a tall
round hat from Zimmerman's, but completely
worn out, rusty with age, all torn and bespat-
tered, brimless and bent on one side in a most
unseemly fashion. Not shame, however, but
quite another feeling akin to terror had over-
taken him.
"I knew it," he muttered in confusion, "I
thought so! That's the worst of all! Why, a stu-
pid thing like this, the most trivial detail might
spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too notice-
able.... It looks absurd and that makes it notice-
able.... With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any
sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque
thing. Nobody wears such a hat, it would be
noticed a mile off, it would be remembered....
What matters is that people would remember
it, and that would give them a clue. For this
business one should be as little conspicuous as
possible.... Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why,
it's just such trifles that always ruin every-
thing...."
He had not far to go; he knew indeed how
many steps it was from the gate of his lodging
house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He
had counted them once when he had been lost
in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in
those dreams and was only tantalising himself
by their hideous but daring recklessness. Now,
a month later, he had begun to look upon them
differently, and, in spite of the monologues in
which he jeered at his own impotence and in-
decision, he had involuntarily come to regard
this "hideous" dream as an exploit to be at-
tempted, although he still did not realise this
himself. He was positively going now for a "re-
hearsal" of his project, and at every step his
excitement grew more and more violent.
With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he
went up to a huge house which on one side
looked on to the canal, and on the other into the
street. This house was let out in tiny tenements
and was inhabited by working people of all
kinds—tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of
sorts, girls picking up a living as best they
could, petty clerks, etc. There was a continual
coming and going through the two gates and in
the two courtyards of the house. Three or four
door-keepers were employed on the building.
The young man was very glad to meet none of
them, and at once slipped unnoticed through
the door on the right, and up the staircase. It
was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he
was familiar with it already, and knew his way,and he liked all these surroundings: in such
darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were
not to be dreaded.
"If I am so scared now, what would it be if it
somehow came to pass that I were really going
to do it?" he could not help asking himself as he
reached the fourth storey. There his progress
was barred by some porters who were engaged
in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew that
the flat had been occupied by a German clerk in
the civil service, and his family. This German
was moving out then, and so the fourth floor
on this staircase would be untenanted except
by the old woman. "That's a good thing any-
way," he thought to himself, as he rang the bell
of the old woman's flat. The bell gave a faint
tinkle as though it were made of tin and not of
copper. The little flats in such houses always
have bells that ring like that. He had forgotten
the note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle
seemed to remind him of something and to
bring it clearly before him.... He started, his
nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In a
little while, the door was opened a tiny crack:
the old woman eyed her visitor with evident
distrust through the crack, and nothing could
be seen but her little eyes, glittering in the
darkness. But, seeing a number of people on
the landing, she grew bolder, and opened the
door wide. The young man stepped into the
dark entry, which was partitioned off from the
tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him
in silence and looking inquiringly at him. She
was a diminutive, withered up old woman of
sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and a sharp
little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizzled
hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore
no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck,
which looked like a hen's leg, was knotted
some sort of flannel rag, and, in spite of the
heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a
mangy fur cape, yellow with age. The old
woman coughed and groaned at every instant.
The young man must have looked at her with a
rather peculiar expression, for a gleam of mis-
trust came into her eyes again.
"Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month
ago," the young man made haste to mutter,
with a half bow, remembering that he ought to
be more polite.
"I remember, my good sir, I remember quite
well your coming here," the old woman said
distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on
his face.
"And here... I am again on the same errand,"
Raskolnikov continued, a little disconcerted
and surprised at the old woman's mistrust.
"Perhaps she is always like that though, only I
did not notice it the other time," he thought
with an uneasy feeling.
The old woman paused, as though hesitating;
then stepped on one side, and pointing to the
door of the room, she said, letting her visitor
pass in front of her:
"Step in, my good sir."
The little room into which the young man wal-
ked, with yellow paper on the walls, geraniums
and muslin curtains in the windows, was brigh-
tly lighted up at that moment by the setting
sun.
"So the sun will shine like this then too!" flashed
as it were by chance through Raskolnikov's
mind, and with a rapid glance he scanned eve-
rything in the room, trying as far as possible to
notice and remember its arrangement. But there
was nothing special in the room. The furniture,
all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a
sofa with a huge bent wooden back, an oval
table in front of the sofa, a dressing-table with a
looking-glass fixed on it between the windows,
chairs along the walls and two or three half-
penny prints in yellow frames, representing
German damsels with birds in their hands—
that was all. In the corner a light was burning
before a small ikon. Everything was very clean;
the floor and the furniture were brightly pol-
ished; everything shone.
"Lizaveta's work," thought the young man.
There was not a speck of dust to be seen in the
whole flat.
"It's in the houses of spiteful old widows that
one finds such cleanliness," Raskolnikov
thought again, and he stole a curious glance at
the cotton curtain over the door leading into
another tiny room, in which stood the old wo-
man's bed and chest of drawers and into which
he had never looked before. These two rooms
made up the whole flat.
"What do you want?" the old woman said se-
verely, coming into the room and, as before,
standing in front of him so as to look him
straight in the face.
"I've brought something to pawn here," and he
drew out of his pocket an old-fashioned flat
silver watch, on the back of which was en-
graved a globe; the chain was of steel.
"But the time is up for your last pledge. The
month was up the day before yesterday."
"I will bring you the interest for another month;
wait a little."
"But that's for me to do as I please, my good sir,
to wait or to sell your pledge at once."
"How much will you give me for the watch,
Alyona Ivanovna?"
"You come with such trifles, my good sir, it's
scarcely worth anything. I gave you two rou-
bles last time for your ring and one could buy it
quite new at a jeweler's for a rouble and a half."
"Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it
was my father's. I shall be getting some money
soon."
"A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if
you like!"
"A rouble and a half!" cried the young man.
"Please yourself"—and the old woman handed
him back the watch. The young man took it,
and was so angry that he was on the point of
going away; but checked himself at once, re-
membering that there was nowhere else he
could go, and that he had had another object
also in coming.
"Hand it over," he said roughly.
The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her
keys, and disappeared behind the curtain into
the other room. The young man, left standing
alone in the middle of the room, listened inqui-
sitively, thinking. He could hear her unlocking
the chest of drawers.
"It must be the top drawer," he reflected. "So
she carries the keys in a pocket on the right. All
in one bunch on a steel ring.... And there's one
key there, three times as big as all the others,
with deep notches; that can't be the key of the
chest of drawers... then there must be some
other chest or strong-box... that's worth know-
ing. Strong-boxes always have keys like that...
but how degrading it all is."
The old woman came back.
"Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a
month, so I must take fifteen copecks from a
rouble and a half for the month in advance. But
for the two roubles I lent you before, you owe
me now twenty copecks on the same reckoning
in advance. That makes thirty-five copecks al-
together. So I must give you a rouble and fif-
teen copecks for the watch. Here it is."
"What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!"
"Just so."
The young man did not dispute it and took the
money. He looked at the old woman, and was
in no hurry to get away, as though there was
still something he wanted to say or to do, but
he did not himself quite know what.
"I may be bringing you something else in a day
or two, Alyona Ivanovna—a valuable thing—
silver—a cigarette-box, as soon as I get it back
from a friend..." he broke off in confusion.
"Well, we will talk about it then, sir."
"Good-bye—are you always at home alone,
your sister is not here with you?" He asked her
as casually as possible as he went out into the
passage.
"What business is she of yours, my good sir?"
"Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You
are too quick.... Good-day, Alyona Ivanovna."
Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion.
This confusion became more and more intense.
As he went down the stairs, he even stopped
short, two or three times, as though suddenly
struck by some thought. When he was in the
street he cried out, "Oh, God, how loathsome it
all is! and can I, can I possibly.... No, it's non-
sense, it's rubbish!" he added resolutely. "And
how could such an atrocious thing come into
my head? What filthy things my heart is capa-ble of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loath-
some, loathsome!—and for a whole month I've
been...." But no words, no exclamations, could
express his agitation. The feeling of intense
repulsion, which had begun to oppress and
torture his heart while he was on his way to the
old woman, had by now reached such a pitch
and had taken such a definite form that he did
not know what to do with himself to escape
from his wretchedness. He walked along the
pavement like a drunken man, regardless of the
passers-by, and jostling against them, and only
came to his senses when he was in the next
street. Looking round, he noticed that he was
standing close to a tavern which was entered
by steps leading from the pavement to the ba-
sement. At that instant two drunken men came
out at the door, and abusing and supporting
one another, they mounted the steps. Without
stopping to think, Raskolnikov went down the
steps at once. Till that moment he had never
been into a tavern, but now he felt giddy and
was tormented by a burning thirst. He longed
for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his sud-
den weakness to the want of food. He sat down
at a sticky little table in a dark and dirty corner;
ordered some beer, and eagerly drank off the
first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his
thoughts became clear.
"All that's nonsense," he said hopefully, "and
there is nothing in it all to worry about! It's sim-
ply physical derangement. Just a glass of beer, a
piece of dry bread—and in one moment the
brain is stronger, the mind is clearer and the
will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all is!"
But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was
by now looking cheerful as though he were
suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he
gazed round in a friendly way at the people in
the room. But even at that moment he had a
dim foreboding that this happier frame of mind
was also not normal.
There were few people at the time in the tavern.
Besides the two drunken men he had met on
the steps, a group consisting of about five men
and a girl with a concertina had gone out at the
same time. Their departure left the room quiet
and rather empty. The persons still in the tav-
ern were a man who appeared to be an artisan,
drunk, but not extremely so, sitting before a pot
of beer, and his companion, a huge, stout man
with a grey beard, in a short full-skirted coat.
He was very drunk: and had dropped asleep
on the bench; every now and then, he began as
though in his sleep, cracking his fingers, with
his arms wide apart and the upper part of his
body bounding about on the bench, while he
hummed some meaningless refrain, trying to
recall some such lines as these:
"His wife a year he fondly loved His wife a—a
year he—fondly loved."
Or suddenly waking up again:
"Walking along the crowded row He met the
one he used to know."
But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent
companion looked with positive hostility and
mistrust at all these manifestations. There was
another man in the room who looked some-
what like a retired government clerk. He was
sitting apart, now and then sipping from his
pot and looking round at the company. He, too,
appeared to be in some agitation.
CHAPTER II
Raskolnikov was not used to crowds, and, as
we said before, he avoided society of every
sort, more especially of late. But now all at once
he felt a desire to be with other people. Some-
thing new seemed to be taking place within
him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for com-
pany. He was so weary after a whole month of
concentrated wretchedness and gloomy ex-
citement that he longed to rest, if only for a
moment, in some other world, whatever it
might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the
surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the
tavern.
The master of the establishment was in another
room, but he frequently came down some steps
into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots
with red turn-over tops coming into view each
time before the rest of his person. He wore a
full coat and a horribly greasy black satin
waistcoat, with no cravat, and his whole face
seemed smeared with oil like an iron lock. At
the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and
there was another boy somewhat younger who
handed whatever was wanted. On the counter
lay some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried
black bread, and some fish, chopped up small,
all smelling very bad. It was insufferably close,
and so heavy with the fumes of spirits that five
minutes in such an atmosphere might well ma-
ke a man drunk.
There are chance meetings with strangers that
interest us from the first moment, before a
word is spoken. Such was the impression made
on Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little
distance from him, who looked like a retired
clerk. The young man often recalled this im-
pression afterwards, and even ascribed it to
presentiment. He looked repeatedly at the
clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was
staring persistently at him, obviously anxious
to enter into conversation. At the other persons
in the room, including the tavern-keeper, the
clerk looked as though he were used to their
company, and weary of it, showing a shade of
condescending contempt for them as persons of
station and culture inferior to his own, with
whom it would be useless for him to converse.
He was a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of
medium height, and stoutly built. His face,
bloated from continual drinking, was of a yel-
low, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids
out of which keen reddish eyes gleamed like
little chinks. But there was something very
strange in him; there was a light in his eyes as
though of intense feeling—perhaps there were
even thought and intelligence, but at the same
time there was a gleam of something like mad-
ness. He was wearing an old and hopelessly
ragged black dress coat, with all its buttons
missing except one, and that one he had but-
toned, evidently clinging to this last trace of
respectability. A crumpled shirt front, covered
with spots and stains, protruded from his can-
vas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore no beard,
nor moustache, but had been so long unshaven
that his chin looked like a stiff greyish brush.
And there was something respectable and like
an official about his manner too. But he was
restless; he ruffled up his hair and from time to
time let his head drop into his hands dejectedly
resting his ragged elbows on the stained and
sticky table. At last he looked straight at Ras-
kolnikov, and said loudly and resolutely:
"May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in
polite conversation? Forasmuch as, though
your exterior would not command respect, my
experience admonishes me that you are a man
of education and not accustomed to drinking. I
have always respected education when in con-
junction with genuine sentiments, and I am
besides a titular counsellor in rank. Marme-
ladov—such is my name; titular counsellor. I
make bold to inquire—have you been in the
service?"
"No, I am studying," answered the young man,
somewhat surprised at the grandiloquent style
of the speaker and also at being so directly ad-
dressed. In spite of the momentary desire he
had just been feeling for company of any sort,
on being actually spoken to he felt immediately
his habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for
any stranger who approached or attempted to
approach him.
"A student then, or formerly a student," cried
the clerk. "Just what I thought! I'm a man of
experience, immense experience, sir," and he
tapped his forehead with his fingers in self-
approval. "You've been a student or have at-
tended some learned institution!... But allow
me...." He got up, staggered, took up his jug
and glass, and sat down beside the young man,
facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but
spoke fluently and boldly, only occasionally
losing the thread of his sentences and drawling
his words. He pounced upon Raskolnikov as
greedily as though he too had not spoken to a
soul for a month.
"Honoured sir," he began almost with solem-nity, "poverty is not a vice, that's a true saying.
Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue,
and that that's even truer. But beggary, hon-
oured sir, beggary is a vice. In poverty you may
still retain your innate nobility of soul, but in
beggary—never—no one. For beggary a man is
not chased out of human society with a stick,
he is swept out with a broom, so as to make it
as humiliating as possible; and quite right, too,
forasmuch as in beggary I am ready to be the
first to humiliate myself. Hence the pot-house!
Honoured sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov
gave my wife a beating, and my wife is a very
different matter from me! Do you understand?
Allow me to ask you another question out of
simple curiosity: have you ever spent a night
on a hay barge, on the Neva?"
"No, I have not happened to," answered Ras-
kolnikov. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I've just come from one and it's the fifth
night I've slept so...." He filled his glass, emp-
tied it and paused. Bits of hay were in fact clin-
ging to his clothes and sticking to his hair. It
seemed quite probable that he had not un-
dressed or washed for the last five days. His
hands, particularly, were filthy. They were fat
and red, with black nails.
His conversation seemed to excite a general
though languid interest. The boys at the coun-
ter fell to sniggering. The innkeeper came down
from the upper room, apparently on purpose to
listen to the "funny fellow" and sat down at a
little distance, yawning lazily, but with dignity.
Evidently Marmeladov was a familiar figure
here, and he had most likely acquired his weak-
ness for high-flown speeches from the habit of
frequently entering into conversation with
strangers of all sorts in the tavern. This habit
develops into a necessity in some drunkards,
and especially in those who are looked after
sharply and kept in order at home. Hence in
the company of other drinkers they try to jus-
tify themselves and even if possible obtain con-
sideration.
"Funny fellow!" pronounced the innkeeper.
"And why don't you work, why aren't you at
your duty, if you are in the service?"
"Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir," Mar-
meladov went on, addressing himself exclu-
sively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he
who put that question to him. "Why am I not at
my duty? Does not my heart ache to think what
a useless worm I am? A month ago when Mr.
Lebeziatnikov beat my wife with his own
hands, and I lay drunk, didn't I suffer? Excuse
me, young man, has it ever happened to you...
hm... well, to petition hopelessly for a loan?"
"Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hope-
lessly?"
"Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you
know beforehand that you will get nothing by
it. You know, for instance, beforehand with
positive certainty that this man, this most repu-
table and exemplary citizen, will on no consid-
eration give you money; and indeed I ask you
why should he? For he knows of course that I
shan't pay it back. From compassion? But Mr.
Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with modern
ideas explained the other day that compassion
is forbidden nowadays by science itself, and
that that's what is done now in England, where
there is political economy. Why, I ask you,
should he give it to me? And yet though I know
beforehand that he won't, I set off to him and..."
"Why do you go?" put in Raskolnikov.
"Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one
can go! For every man must have somewhere to
go. Since there are times when one absolutely
must go somewhere! When my own daughter
first went out with a yellow ticket, then I had to
go... (for my daughter has a yellow passport),"
he added in parenthesis, looking with a certain
uneasiness at the young man. "No matter, sir,
no matter!" he went on hurriedly and with ap-
parent composure when both the boys at the
counter guffawed and even the innkeeper smi-
led—"No matter, I am not confounded by the
wagging of their heads; for everyone knows
everything about it already, and all that is se-
cret is made open. And I accept it all, not with
contempt, but with humility. So be it! So be it!
'Behold the man!' Excuse me, young man, can
you.... No, to put it more strongly and more
distinctly; not can you but dare you, looking
upon me, assert that I am not a pig?"
The young man did not answer a word.
"Well," the orator began again stolidly and with
even increased dignity, after waiting for the
laughter in the room to subside. "Well, so be it,
I am a pig, but she is a lady! I have the sem-
blance of a beast, but Katerina Ivanovna, my
spouse, is a person of education and an officer's
daughter. Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel,
but she is a woman of a noble heart, full of sen-
timents, refined by education. And yet... oh, if
only she felt for me! Honoured sir, honoured
sir, you know every man ought to have at least
one place where people feel for him! But Kate-
rina Ivanovna, though she is magnanimous, she
is unjust.... And yet, although I realise that
when she pulls my hair she only does it out of
pity—for I repeat without being ashamed, she
pulls my hair, young man," he declared with
redoubled dignity, hearing the sniggering
again—"but, my God, if she would but once....
But no, no! It's all in vain and it's no use talk-
ing! No use talking! For more than once, my
wish did come true and more than once she has
felt for me but... such is my fate and I am a
beast by nature!"
"Rather!" assented the innkeeper yawning.
Marmeladov struck his fist resolutely on the
table.
"Such is my fate! Do you know, sir, do you
know, I have sold her very stockings for drink?
Not her shoes—that would be more or less in
the order of things, but her stockings, her stock-
ings I have sold for drink! Her mohair shawl I
sold for drink, a present to her long ago, her
own property, not mine; and we live in a cold
room and she caught cold this winter and has
begun coughing and spitting blood too. We
have three little children and Katerina Ivanov-
na is at work from morning till night; she is
scrubbing and cleaning and washing the chil-
dren, for she's been used to cleanliness from a
child. But her chest is weak and she has a ten-
dency to consumption and I feel it! Do you
suppose I don't feel it? And the more I drink
the more I feel it. That's why I drink too. I try to
find sympathy and feeling in drink.... I drink so
that I may suffer twice as much!" And as
though in despair he laid his head down on the
table.
"Young man," he went on, raising his head
again, "in your face I seem to read some trouble
of mind. When you came in I read it, and that
was why I addressed you at once. For in un-
folding to you the story of my life, I do not
wish to make myself a laughing-stock before
these idle listeners, who indeed know all about
it already, but I am looking for a man of feeling
and education. Know then that my wife was
educated in a high-class school for the daugh-
ters of noblemen, and on leaving she danced
the shawl dance before the governor and other
personages for which she was presented with a
gold medal and a certificate of merit. The
medal... well, the medal of course was sold—
long ago, hm... but the certificate of merit is in
her trunk still and not long ago she showed it
to our landlady. And although she is most con-
tinually on bad terms with the landlady, yet
she wanted to tell someone or other of her past
honours and of the happy days that are gone. I
don't condemn her for it, I don't blame her, for
the one thing left her is recollection of the past,
and all the rest is dust and ashes. Yes, yes, she
is a lady of spirit, proud and determined. She
scrubs the floors herself and has nothing but
black bread to eat, but won't allow herself to be
treated with disrespect. That's why she would
not overlook Mr. Lebeziatnikov's rudeness to
her, and so when he gave her a beating for it,
she took to her bed more from the hurt to her
feelings than from the blows.She was a widow
when I married her, with three children, one
smaller than the other. She married her first
husband, an infantry officer, for love, and ran
away with him from her father's house. She
was exceedingly fond of her husband; but he
gave way to cards, got into trouble and with
that he died. He used to beat her at the end:
and although she paid him back, of which I
have authentic documentary evidence, to this
day she speaks of him with tears and she
throws him up to me; and I am glad, I am glad
that, though only in imagination, she should
think of herself as having once been happy....
And she was left at his death with three chil-
dren in a wild and remote district where I hap-
pened to be at the time; and she was left in such
hopeless poverty that, although I have seen
many ups and downs of all sort, I don't feel
equal to describing it even. Her relations had
all thrown her off. And she was proud, too,
excessively proud.... And then, honoured sir,
and then, I, being at the time a widower, with a
daughter of fourteen left me by my first wife,
offered her my hand, for I could not bear the
sight of such suffering. You can judge the ex-
tremity of her calamities, that she, a woman of
education and culture and distinguished fam-
ily, should have consented to be my wife. But
she did! Weeping and sobbing and wringing
her hands, she married me! For she had no-
where to turn! Do you understand, sir, do you
understand what it means when you have ab-
solutely nowhere to turn? No, that you don't
understand yet.... And for a whole year, I per-
formed my duties conscientiously and faith-
fully, and did not touch this" (he tapped the jug
with his finger), "for I have feelings. But even
so, I could not please her; and then I lost my
place too, and that through no fault of mine but
through changes in the office; and then I did
touch it!... It will be a year and a half ago soon
since we found ourselves at last after many
wanderings and numerous calamities in this
magnificent capital, adorned with innumerable
monuments. Here I obtained a situation.... I
obtained it and I lost it again. Do you under-
stand? This time it was through my own fault I
lost it: for my weakness had come out.... We
have now part of a room at Amalia Fyodorovna
Lippevechsel's; and what we live upon and
what we pay our rent with, I could not say.
There are a lot of people living there besides
ourselves. Dirt and disorder, a perfect Bedlam...
hm... yes... And meanwhile my daughter by my
first wife has grown up; and what my daughter
has had to put up with from her step-mother
whilst she was growing up, I won't speak of.
For, though Katerina Ivanovna is full of gener-
ous feelings, she is a spirited lady, irritable and
short—tempered.... Yes. But it's no use going
over that! Sonia, as you may well fancy, has
had no education. I did make an effort four
years ago to give her a course of geography and
universal history, but as I was not very well up
in those subjects myself and we had no suitable
books, and what books we had... hm, anyway
we have not even those now, so all our instruc-
tion came to an end. We stopped at Cyrus of
Persia. Since she has attained years of maturity,
she has read other books of romantic tendency
and of late she had read with great interest a
book she got through Mr. Lebeziatnikov,
Lewes' Physiology—do you know it?—and
even recounted extracts from it to us: and that's
the whole of her education. And now may I
venture to address you, honoured sir, on my
own account with a private question. Do you
suppose that a respectable poor girl can earn
much by honest work? Not fifteen farthings a
day can she earn, if she is respectable and has
no special talent and that without putting her
work down for an instant! And what's more,
Ivan Ivanitch Klopstock the civil counsellor—
have you heard of him?—has not to this day
paid her for the half-dozen linen shirts she
made him and drove her roughly away, stamp-
ing and reviling her, on the pretext that the
shirt collars were not made like the pattern and
were put in askew. And there are the little ones
hungry.... And Katerina Ivanovna walking up
and down and wringing her hands, her cheeks
flushed red, as they always are in that disease:
'Here you live with us,' says she, 'you eat and
drink and are kept warm and you do nothing
to help.' And much she gets to eat and drink
when there is not a crust for the little ones for
three days! I was lying at the time... well, what
of it! I was lying drunk and I heard my Sonia
speaking (she is a gentle creature with a soft
little voice... fair hair and such a pale, thin little
face). She said: 'Katerina Ivanovna, am I really
to do a thing like that?' And Darya Frantsovna,
a woman of evil character and very well known
to the police, had two or three times tried to get
at her through the landlady. 'And why not?'
said Katerina Ivanovna with a jeer, 'you are
something mighty precious to be so careful of!'
But don't blame her, don't blame her, honoured
sir, don't blame her! She was not herself when
she spoke, but driven to distraction by her ill-
ness and the crying of the hungry children; and
it was said more to wound her than anything
else.... For that's Katerina Ivanovna's character,
and when children cry, even from hunger, she
falls to beating them at once. At six o'clock I
saw Sonia get up, put on her kerchief and her
cape, and go out of the room and about nine
o'clock she came back. She walked straight up
to Katerina Ivanovna and she laid thirty rou-
bles on the table before her in silence. She did
not utter a word, she did not even look at her,
she simply picked up our big green drap de
dames shawl (we have a shawl, made of drap de
dames), put it over her head and face and lay
down on the bed with her face to the wall; only
her little shoulders and her body kept shudder-
ing.... And I went on lying there, just as be-
fore.... And then I saw, young man, I saw
Katerina Ivanovna, in the same silence go up to
Sonia's little bed; she was on her knees all the
evening kissing Sonia's feet, and would not get
up, and then they both fell asleep in each
other's arms... together, together... yes... and I...
lay drunk."
Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice
had failed him. Then he hurriedly filled his
glass, drank, and cleared his throat.
"Since then, sir," he went on after a brief pau-
se—"Since then, owing to an unfortunate occur-
rence and through information given by evil-
intentioned persons—in all which Darya Frant-
sovna took a leading part on the pretext that
she had been treated with want of respect—
since then my daughter Sofya Semyonovna has
been forced to take a yellow ticket, and owing
to that she is unable to go on living with us. For
our landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna would not
hear of it (though she had backed up Darya
Frantsovna before) and Mr. Lebeziatnikov too...
hm.... All the trouble between him and Katerina
Ivanovna was on Sonia's account. At first he
was for making up to Sonia himself and then
all of a sudden he stood on his dignity: 'how,'
said he, 'can a highly educated man like me live
in the same rooms with a girl like that?' And
Katerina Ivanovna would not let it pass, she
stood up for her... and so that's how it hap-
pened. And Sonia comes to us now, mostly
after dark; she comforts Katerina Ivanovna and
gives her all she can.... She has a room at the
Kapernaumovs' the tailors, she lodges with
them; Kapernaumov is a lame man with a cleft
palate and all of his numerous family have cleft
palates too. And his wife, too, has a cleft palate.
They all live in one room, but Sonia has her
own, partitioned off.... Hm... yes... very poor
people and all with cleft palates... yes. Then I
got up in the morning, and put on my rags,
lifted up my hands to heaven and set off to his
excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch. His excellency
Ivan Afanasyvitch, do you know him? No?
Well, then, it's a man of God you don'tknow.
He is wax... wax before the face of the Lord;
even as wax melteth!... His eyes were dim
when he heard my story. 'Marmeladov, once
already you have deceived my expectations...
I'll take you once more on my own responsibil-
ity'—that's what he said, 'remember,' he said,
'and now you can go.' I kissed the dust at his
feet—in thought only, for in reality he would
not have allowed me to do it, being a statesman
and a man of modern political and enlightened
ideas. I returned home, and when I announced
that I'd been taken back into the service and
should receive a salary, heavens, what a to-do
there was!..."
Marmeladov stopped again in violent excite-
ment. At that moment a whole party of revel-
lers already drunk came in from the street, and
the sounds of a hired concertina and the crac-
ked piping voice of a child of seven singing
"The Hamlet" were heard in the entry. The
room was filled with noise. The tavern-keeper
and the boys were busy with the new-comers.
Marmeladov paying no attention to the new
arrivals continued his story. He appeared by
now to be extremely weak, but as he became
more and more drunk, he became more and
more talkative. The recollection of his recent
success in getting the situation seemed to re-
vive him, and was positively reflected in a sort
of radiance on his face. Raskolnikov listened
attentively.
"That was five weeks ago, sir. Yes.... As soon as
Katerina Ivanovna and Sonia heard of it, mercy
on us, it was as though I stepped into the king-
dom of Heaven. It used to be: you can lie like a
beast, nothing but abuse. Now they were walk-
ing on tiptoe, hushing the children. 'Semyon
Zaharovitch is tired with his work at the office,
he is resting, shh!' They made me coffee before
I went to work and boiled cream for me! They
began to get real cream for me, do you hear
that? And how they managed to get together
the money for a decent outfit—eleven roubles,
fifty copecks, I can't guess. Boots, cotton shirt-
fronts—most magnificent, a uniform, they got
up all in splendid style, for eleven roubles and
a half. The first morning I came back from the
office I found Katerina Ivanovna had cooked
two courses for dinner—soup and salt meat
with horse radish—which we had never drea-
med of till then. She had not any dresses... none
at all, but she got herself up as though she were
going on a visit; and not that she'd anything to
do it with, she smartened herself up with noth-
ing at all, she'd done her hair nicely, put on a
clean collar of some sort, cuffs, and there she
was, quite a different person, she was younger
and better looking. Sonia, my little darling, had
only helped with money 'for the time,' she said,
'it won't do for me to come and see you too
often. After dark maybe when no one can see.'
Do you hear, do you hear? I lay down for a nap
after dinner and what do you think: though
Katerina Ivanovna had quarrelled to the last
degree with our landlady Amalia Fyodorovna
only a week before, she could not resist then
asking her in to coffee. For two hours they were
sitting, whispering together. 'Semyon Za-
harovitch is in the service again, now, and re-
ceiving a salary,' says she, 'and he went himself
to his excellency and his excellency himself
came out to him, made all the others wait and
led Semyon Zaharovitch by the hand before
everybody into his study.' Do you hear, do you
hear? 'To be sure,' says he, 'Semyon Za-
harovitch, remembering your past services,'
says he, 'and in spite of your propensity to that
foolish weakness, since you promise now and
since moreover we've got on badly without
you,' (do you hear, do you hear;) 'and so,' says
he, 'I rely now on your word as a gentleman.'
And all that, let me tell you, she has simply
made up for herself, and not simply out of
wantonness, for the sake of bragging; no, she
believes it all herself, she amuses herself with
her own fancies, upon my word she does! And
I don't blame her for it, no, I don't blame her!...
Six days ago when I brought her my first earn-
ings in full—twenty-three roubles forty copecks
altogether—she called me her poppet: 'poppet,'
said she, 'my little poppet.' And when we were
by ourselves, you understand? You would not
think me a beauty, you would not think much
of me as a husband, would you?... Well, she
pinched my cheek, 'my little poppet,' said she."
Marmeladov broke off, tried to smile, but sud-
denly his chin began to twitch. He controlled
himself however. The tavern, the degraded
appearance of the man, the five nights in the
hay barge, and the pot of spirits, and yet this
poignant love for his wife and children bewil-
dered his listener. Raskolnikov listened intently
but with a sick sensation. He felt vexed that he
had come here.
"Honoured sir, honoured sir," cried Marme-
ladov recovering himself—"Oh, sir, perhaps all
this seems a laughing matter to you, as it does
to others, and perhaps I am only worrying you
with the stupidity of all the trivial details of my
home life, but it is not a laughing matter to me.
For I can feel it all.... And the whole of that
heavenly day of my life and the whole of that
evening I passed in fleeting dreams of how I
would arrange it all, and how I would dress all
the children, and how I should give her rest,
and how I should rescue my own daughter
from dishonour and restore her to the bosom of
her family.... And a great deal more.... Quite
excusable, sir. Well, then, sir" (Marmeladov
suddenly gave a sort of start, raised his head
and gazed intently at his listener) "well, on the
very next day after all those dreams, that is to
say, exactly five days ago, in the evening, by a
cunning trick, like a thief in the night, I stole
from Katerina Ivanovna the key of her box,
took out what was left of my earnings, how
much it was I have forgotten, and now look at
me, all of you! It's the fifth day since I left
home, and they are looking for me there and
it's the end of my employment, and my uni-
form is lying in a tavern on the Egyptian brid-
ge. I exchanged it for the garments I have on...
and it's the end of everything!"
Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist,
clenched his teeth, closed his eyes and leaned
heavily with his elbow on the table. But a min-
ute later his face suddenly changed and with a
certain assumed slyness and affectation of bra-
vado, he glanced at Raskolnikov, laughed and
said:
"This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask
her for a pick-me-up! He-he-he!"
"You don't say she gave it to you?" cried one of
the new-comers; he shouted the words and
went off into a guffaw.
"This very quart was bought with her money,"
Marmeladov declared, addressing himself ex-
clusively to Raskolnikov. "Thirty copecks she
gave me with her own hands, her last, all she
had, as I saw.... She said nothing, she only loo-
ked at me without a word.... Not on earth, but
up yonder... they grieve over men, they weep,
but they don't blame them, they don't blame
them! But it hurts more, it hurts more when
they don't blame! Thirty copecks yes! And
maybe she needs them now, eh? What do you
think, my dear sir? For now she's got to keep
up her appearance. It costs money, that smart-
ness, that special smartness, you know? Do you
understand? And there's pomatum, too, you
see, she must have things; petticoats, starched
ones, shoes, too, real jaunty ones to show off
her foot when she has to step over a puddle. Do
you understand, sir, do you understand what
all that smartness means? And here I, her own
father, here I took thirty copecks of that money
for a drink! And I am drinking it! And I have
already drunk it! Come, who will have pity on
a man like me, eh? Are you sorry for me, sir, or
not? Tell me, sir, are you sorry or not? He-he-
he!"
He would have filled his glass, but there was
no drink left. The pot was empty.
"What are you to be pitied for?" shouted the
tavern-keeper who was again near them.
Shouts of laughter and even oaths followed.
The laughter and the oaths came fromthose
who were listening and also from those who
had heard nothing but were simply looking at
the figure of the discharged government clerk.
"To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?" Marme-
ladov suddenly declaimed, standing up with
his arm outstretched, as though he had been
only waiting for that question.
"Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! there's
nothing to pity me for! I ought to be crucified,
crucified on a cross, not pitied! Crucify me, oh
judge, crucify me but pity me! And then I will
go of myself to be crucified, for it's not merry-
making I seek but tears and tribulation!... Do
you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of
yours has been sweet to me? It was tribulation I
sought at the bottom of it, tears and tribulation,
and have found it, and I have tasted it; but He
will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who
has understood all men and all things, He is the
One, He too is the judge. He will come in that
day and He will ask: 'Where is the daughter
who gave herself for her cross, consumptive
step-mother and for the little children of an-
other? Where is the daughter who had pity
upon the filthy drunkard, her earthly father,
undismayed by his beastliness?' And He will
say, 'Come to me! I have already forgiven thee
once.... I have forgiven thee once.... Thy sins
which are many are forgiven thee for thou hast
loved much....' And he will forgive my Sonia,
He will forgive, I know it... I felt it in my heart
when I was with her just now! And He will
judge and will forgive all, the good and the
evil, the wise and the meek.... And when He
has done with all of them, then He will sum-
mon us. 'You too come forth,' He will say, 'Co-
me forth ye drunkards, come forth, ye weak
ones, come forth, ye children of shame!' And
we shall all come forth, without shame and
shall stand before him. And He will say unto
us, 'Ye are swine, made in the Image of the
Beast and with his mark; but come ye also!'
And the wise ones and those of understanding
will say, 'Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these
men?' And He will say, 'This is why I receive
them, oh ye wise, this is why I receive them, oh
ye of understanding, that not one of them be-
lieved himself to be worthy of this.' And He
will hold out His hands to us and we shall fall
down before him... and we shall weep... and we
shall understand all things! Then we shall un-
derstand all!... and all will understand, Katerina
Ivanovna even... she will understand.... Lord,
Thy kingdom come!" And he sank down on the
bench exhausted, and helpless, looking at no
one, apparently oblivious of his surroundings
and plunged in deep thought. His words had
created a certain impression; there was a mo-
ment of silence; but soon laughter and oaths
were heard again.
"That's his notion!"
"Talked himself silly!"
"A fine clerk he is!"
And so on, and so on.
"Let us go, sir," said Marmeladov all at once,
raising his head and addressing Raskolnikov—
"come along with me... Kozel's house, looking
into the yard. I'm going to Katerina Ivanovna—
time I did."
Raskolnikov had for some time been wanting
to go and he had meant to help him. Marme-
ladov was much unsteadier on his legs than in
his speech and leaned heavily on the young
man. They had two or three hundred paces to
go. The drunken man was more and more
overcome by dismay and confusion as they
drew nearer the house.
"It's not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now,"
he muttered in agitation—"and that she will
begin pulling my hair. What does my hair mat-
ter! Bother my hair! That's what I say! Indeed it
will be better if she does begin pulling it, that's
not what I am afraid of... it's her eyes I am
afraid of... yes, her eyes... the red on her cheeks,
too, frightens me... and her breathing too....
Have you noticed how people in that disease
breathe... when they are excited? I am fright-
ened of the children's crying, too.... For if Sonia
has not taken them food... I don't know what's
happened! I don't know! But blows I am not
afraid of.... Know, sir, that such blows are not a
pain to me, but even an enjoyment. In fact I
can't get on without it.... It's better so. Let her
strike me, it relieves her heart... it's better so...
There is the house. The house of Kozel, the ca-
binet-maker... a German, well-to-do. Lead the
way!"
They went in from the yard and up to the
fourth storey. The staircase got darker and dar-
ker as they went up. It was nearly eleven o'-
clock and although in summer in Petersburg
there is no real night, yet it was quite dark at
the top of the stairs.
A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs
stood ajar. A very poor-looking room about ten
paces long was lighted up by a candle-end; the
whole of it was visible from the entrance. It was
all in disorder, littered up with rags of all sorts,
especially children's garments. Across the fur-
thest corner was stretched a ragged sheet. Be-
hind it probably was the bed. There was noth-
ing in the room except two chairs and a sofa
covered with American leather, full of holes,
before which stood an old deal kitchen-table,
unpainted and uncovered. At the edge of the
table stood a smoldering tallow-candle in an
iron candlestick. It appeared that the family
had a room to themselves, not part of a room,
but their room was practically a passage. The
door leading to the other rooms, or rather cup-
boards, into which Amalia Lippevechsel's flat
was divided stood half open, and there was
shouting, uproar and laughter within. People
seemed to be playing cards and drinking tea
there. Words of the most unceremonious kind
flew out from time to time.
Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at
once. She was a rather tall, slim and graceful
woman, terribly emaciated, with magnificent
dark brown hair and with a hectic flush in her
cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her
little room, pressing her hands against her
chest; her lips were parched and her breathing
came in nervous broken gasps. Her eyes glit-
tered as in fever and looked about with a harsh
immovable stare. And that consumptive and
excited face with the last flickering light of the
candle-end playing upon it made a sickening
impression. She seemed to Raskolnikov about
thirty years old and was certainly a strange
wife for Marmeladov.... She had not heard
them and did not notice them coming in. She
seemed to be lost in thought, hearing and see-
ing nothing. The room was close, but she had
not opened the window; a stench rose from the
staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not
closed. From the inner rooms clouds of tobacco
smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did
not close the door. The youngest child, a girl of
six, was asleep, sitting curled up on the floor
with her head on the sofa. A boy a year older
stood crying and shaking in the corner, proba-
bly he had just had a beating. Beside him stood
a girl of nine years old, tall and thin, wearing a
thin and ragged chemise with an ancient cash-
mere pelisse flung over her bare shoulders,
long outgrown and barely reaching her knees.
Her arm, as thin as a stick, was round her
brother's neck. She was trying to comfort him,
whispering something to him, and doing all she
could to keep him from whimpering again. At
the same time her large dark eyes, which
looked larger still from the thinness of her
frightened face, were watching her mother with
alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the door, but
dropped on his knees in the very doorway,
pushing Raskolnikov in front of him. The wo-
man seeing a stranger stopped indifferently
facing him, coming to herself for a moment and
apparently wondering what he had come for.
But evidently she decided that he was going
into the next room, as he had to pass through
hers to get there. Taking no further notice of
him, she walked towards the outer door to
close it and uttered a sudden scream on seeing
her husband on his knees in the doorway.
"Ah!" she cried out in a frenzy, "he hascome
back! The criminal! the monster!... And where
is the money? What's in your pocket, show me!
And your clothes are all different! Where are
your clothes? Where is the money! Speak!"
And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov
submissively and obediently held up both arms
to facilitate the search. Not a farthing was there.
"Where is the money?" she cried—"Mercy on
us, can he have drunk it all? There were twelve
silver roubles left in the chest!" and in a fury
she seized him by the hair and dragged him
into the room. Marmeladov seconded her ef-
forts by meekly crawling along on his knees.
"And this is a consolation to me! This does not
hurt me, but is a positive con-so-la-tion, ho-
nou-red sir," he called out, shaken to and fro by
his hair and even once striking the ground with
his forehead. The child asleep on the floor woke
up, and began to cry. The boy in the corner
losing all control began trembling and scream-
ing and rushed to his sister in violent terror,
almost in a fit. The eldest girl was shaking like
a leaf.
"He's drunk it! he's drunk it all," the poor wo-
man screamed in despair—"and his clothes are
gone! And they are hungry, hungry!"—and
wringing her hands she pointed to the children.
"Oh, accursed life! And you, are you not as-
hamed?"—she pounced all at once upon Ras-
kolnikov—"from the tavern! Have you been
drinking with him? You have been drinking
with him, too! Go away!"
The young man was hastening away without
uttering a word. The inner door was thrown
wide open and inquisitive faces were peering
in at it. Coarse laughing faces with pipes and
cigarettes and heads wearing caps thrust them-
selves in at the doorway. Further in could be
seen figures in dressing gowns flung open, in
costumes of unseemly scantiness, some of them
with cards in their hands. They were particu-
larly diverted, when Marmeladov, dragged
about by his hair, shouted that it was a consola-
tion to him. They even began to come into the
room; at last a sinister shrill outcry was heard:
this came from Amalia Lippevechsel herself
pushing her way amongst them and trying to
restore order after her own fashion and for the
hundredth time to frighten the poor woman by
ordering her with coarse abuse to clear out of
the room next day. As he went out, Raskol-
nikov had time to put his hand into his pocket,
to snatch up the coppers he had received in
exchange for his rouble in the tavern and to lay
them unnoticed on the window. Afterwards on
the stairs, he changed his mind and would have
gone back.
"What a stupid thing I've done," he thought to
himself, "they have Sonia and I want it myself."
But reflecting that it would be impossible to
take it back now and that in any case he would
not have taken it, he dismissed it with a wave
of his hand and went back to his lodging. "So-
nia wants pomatum too," he said as he walked
along the street, and he laughed malignantly—
"such smartness costs money.... Hm! And may-
be Sonia herself will be bankrupt to-day, for
there is always a risk, hunting big game... dig-
ging for gold... then they would all be without a
crust to-morrow except for my money. Hurrah
for Sonia! What a mine they've dug there! And
they're making the most of it! Yes, they are ma-
king the most of it! They've wept over it and
grown used to it. Man grows used to every-
thing, the scoundrel!"
He sank into thought.
"And what if I am wrong," he cried suddenly
after a moment's thought. "What if man is not
really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the
whole race of mankind—then all the rest is pre-
judice, simply artificial terrors and there are no
barriers and it's all as it should be."
CHAPTER III
He waked up late next day after a broken sleep.
But his sleep had not refreshed him; he waked
up bilious, irritable, ill-tempered, and looked
with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard
of a room about six paces in length. It had a
poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty yel-
low paper peeling off the walls, and it was so
low-pitched that a man of more than average
height was ill at ease in it and felt every mo-
ment that he would knock his head against the
ceiling. The furniture was in keeping with the
room: there were three old chairs, rather rick-
ety; a painted table in the corner on which lay a
few manuscripts and books; the dust that lay
thick upon them showed that they had been
long untouched. A big clumsy sofa occupied
almost the whole of one wall and half the floor
space of the room; it was once covered with
chintz, but was now in rags and served Raskol-
nikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as
he was, without undressing, without sheets,
wrapped in his old student's overcoat, with his
head on one little pillow, under which he hea-
ped up all the linen he had, clean and dirty, by
way of a bolster. A little table stood in front of
the sofa.
It would have been difficult to sink to a lower
ebb of disorder, but to Raskolnikov in his pre-
sent state of mind this was positively agreeable.
He had got completely away from everyone,
like a tortoise in its shell, and even the sight of a
servant girl who had to wait upon him and
looked sometimes into his room made him
writhe with nervous irritation. He was in the
condition that overtakes some monomaniacs
entirely concentrated upon one thing. His land-
lady had for the last fortnight given up sending
him in meals, and he had not yet thought of
expostulating with her, though he went with-
out his dinner. Nastasya, the cook and only
servant, was rather pleased at the lodger's
mood and had entirely given up sweeping and
doing his room, only once a week or so she
would stray into his room with a broom. She
waked him up that day.
"Get up, why are you asleep?" she called to
him. "It's past nine, I have brought you some
tea; will you have a cup? I should think you're
fairly starving?"
Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and rec-
ognised Nastasya.
"From the landlady, eh?" he asked, slowly and
with a sickly face sitting up on the sofa.
"From the landlady, indeed!"
She set before him her own cracked teapot full
of weak and stale tea and laid two yellow
lumps of sugar by the side of it.
"Here, Nastasya, take it please," he said, fum-
bling in his pocket (for he had slept in his clot-
hes) and taking out a handful of coppers—"run
and buy me a loaf. And get me a little sausage,
the cheapest, at the pork-butcher's."
"The loaf I'll fetch you this very minute, but
wouldn't you rather have some cabbage soup
instead of sausage? It's capital soup, yester-
day's. I saved it for you yesterday, but you ca-
me in late. It's fine soup."
When the soup had been brought, and he had
begun upon it, Nastasya sat down beside him
on the sofa and began chatting. She was a coun-
try peasant-woman and a very talkative one.
"Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the
police about you," she said.
He scowled.
"To the police? What does she want?"
"You don't pay her money and you won't turn
out of the room. That's what she wants, to be
sure."
"The devil, that's the last straw," he muttered,
grinding his teeth, "no, that would not suit me...
just now. She is a fool," he added aloud. "I'll go
and talk to her to-day."
"Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But
why, if you are so clever, do you lie here like a
sack and have nothing to show for it? One time
you used to go out, you say, to teach children.
But why is it you do nothing now?"
"I am doing..." Raskolnikov began sullenly and
reluctantly.
"What are you doing?"
"Work..."
"What sort of work?"
"I am thinking," he answered seriously after a
pause.
Nastasya was overcome with a fit of laughter.
She was given to laughter and when anything
amused her, she laughed inaudibly, quivering
and shaking all over till she felt ill.
"And have you made much money by your
thinking?" she managed to articulate at last.
"One can't go out to give lessons without boots.
And I'm sick of it."
"Don't quarrel withyour bread and butter."
"They pay so little for lessons. What's the use of
a few coppers?" he answered, reluctantly, as
though replying to his own thought.
"And you want to get a fortune all at once?"
He looked at her strangely.
"Yes, I want a fortune," he answered firmly,
after a brief pause.
"Don't be in such a hurry, you quite frighten
me! Shall I get you the loaf or not?"
"As you please."
"Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday
when you were out."
"A letter? for me! from whom?"
"I can't say. I gave three copecks of my own to
the postman for it. Will you pay me back?"
"Then bring it to me, for God's sake, bring it,"
cried Raskolnikov greatly excited—"good
God!"
A minute later the letter was brought him. That
was it: from his mother, from the province of
R——. He turned pale when he took it. It was a
long while since he had received a letter, but
another feeling also suddenly stabbed his heart.
"Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness' sake;
here are your three copecks, but for goodness'
sake, make haste and go!"
The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not
want to open it in her presence; he wanted to
be left alone with this letter. When Nastasya had
gone out, he lifted it quickly to his lips and kis-
sed it; then he gazed intently at the address, the
small, sloping handwriting, so dear and famil-
iar, of the mother who had once taught him to
read and write. He delayed; he seemed almost
afraid of something. At last he opened it; it was
a thick heavy letter, weighing over two ounces,
two large sheets of note paper were covered
with very small handwriting.
"My dear Rodya," wrote his mother—"it's two
months since I last had a talk with you by letter
which has distressed me and even kept me
awake at night, thinking. But I am sure you will
not blame me for my inevitable silence. You
know how I love you; you are all we have to
look to, Dounia and I, you are our all, our one
hope, our one stay. What a grief it was to me
when I heard that you had given up the univer-
sity some months ago, for want of means to
keep yourself and that you had lost your les-
sons and your other work! How could I help
you out of my hundred and twenty roubles a
year pension? The fifteen roubles I sent you
four months ago I borrowed, as you know, on
security of my pension, from Vassily Ivano-
vitch Vahrushin a merchant of this town. He is
a kind-hearted man and was a friend of your
father's too. But having given him the right to
receive the pension, I had to wait till the debt
was paid off and that is only just done, so that
I've been unable to send you anything all this
time. But now, thank God, I believe I shall be
able to send you something more and in fact
we may congratulate ourselves on our good
fortune now, of which I hasten to inform you.
In the first place, would you have guessed, dear
Rodya, that your sister has been living with me
for the last six weeks and we shall not be sepa-
rated in the future. Thank God, her sufferings
are over, but I will tell you everything in order,
so that you may know just how everything has
happened and all that we have hitherto con-
cealed from you. When you wrote to me two
months ago that you had heard that Dounia
had a great deal to put up with in the Svidri-
graïlovs' house, when you wrote that and asked
me to tell you all about it—what could I write
in answer to you? If I had written the whole
truth to you, I dare say you would have thrown
up everything and have come to us, even if you
had to walk all the way, for I know your char-
acter and your feelings, and you would not let
your sister be insulted. I was in despair myself,
but what could I do? And, besides, I did not
know the whole truth myself then. What made
it all so difficult was that Dounia received a
hundred roubles in advance when she took the
place as governess in their family, on condition
of part of her salary being deducted every
month, and so it was impossible to throw up
the situation without repaying the debt. This
sum (now I can explain it all to you, my pre-
cious Rodya) she took chiefly in order to send
you sixty roubles, which you needed so terribly
then and which you received from us last year.
We deceived you then, writing that this money
came from Dounia's savings, but that was not
so, and now I tell you all about it, because,
thank God, things have suddenly changed for
the better, and that you may know how Dounia
loves you and what a heart she has. At first
indeed Mr. Svidrigaïlov treated her very rudely
and used to make disrespectful and jeering
remarks at table.... But I don't want to go into
all those painful details, so as not to worry you
for nothing when it is now all over. In short, in
spite of the kind and generous behaviour of
Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigaïlov's wife, and all
the rest of the household, Dounia had a very
hard time, especially when Mr. Svidrigaïlov,
relapsing into his old regimental habits, was
under the influence of Bacchus. And how do
you think it was all explained later on? Would
you believe that the crazy fellow had conceived
a passion for Dounia from the beginning, but
had concealed it under a show of rudeness and
contempt. Possibly he was ashamed and horri-
fied himself at his own flighty hopes, consider-
ing his years and his being the father of a fam-
ily; and that made him angry with Dounia. And
possibly, too, he hoped by his rude and sneer-
ing behaviour to hide the truth from others. But
at last he lost all control and had the face to
make Dounia an open and shameful proposal,
promising her all sorts of inducements and of-
fering, besides, to throw up everything and
take her to another estate of his, or even
abroad. You can imagine all she went through!
To leave her situation at once was impossible
not only on account of the money debt, but also
to spare the feelings of Marfa Petrovna, whose
suspicions would have been aroused: and then
Dounia would have been the cause of a rupture
in the family. And it would have meant a terri-
ble scandal for Dounia too; that would have
been inevitable. There were various other rea-
sons owing to which Dounia could not hope to
escape from that awful house for another six
weeks. You know Dounia, of course; you know
how clever she is and what a strong will she
has. Dounia can endure a great deal and even
in the most difficult cases she has the fortitude
to maintain her firmness. She did not even wri-
te to me about everything for fear of upsetting
me, although we were constantly in communi-
cation. It all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa
Petrovna accidentally overheard her husband
imploring Dounia in the garden, and, putting
quite a wrong interpretation on the position,
threw the blame upon her, believing her to be
the cause of it all. An awful scene took place
between them on the spot in the garden; Marfa
Petrovna went so far as to strike Dounia, re-
fused to hear anything and was shouting at her
for a whole hour and then gave orders that
Dounia should be packed off at once to me in a
plain peasant's cart, into which they flung all
her things, her linen and her clothes, all pell-
mell, without folding it up and packing it. And
a heavy shower of rain came on, too, and Dou-
nia, insulted and put to shame, had to drive
with a peasant in an open cart all the seventeen
versts into town. Only think now what answer
could I have sent to the letter I received from
you two months ago and what could I have
written? I was in despair; I dared not write to
you the truth because you would have been
very unhappy, mortified and indignant, and
yet what could you do? You could only per-
haps ruin yourself, and, besides, Dounia would
not allow it; and fill up my letter with trifles
when my heart was so full of sorrow, I could
not. For a whole month the town was full of
gossip about this scandal, and it came to such a
pass that Dounia and I dared not even go to
church on account of the contemptuous looks,
whispers, and evenremarks made aloud about
us. All our acquaintances avoided us, nobody
even bowed to us in the street, and I learnt that
some shopmen and clerks were intending to
insult us in a shameful way, smearing the gates
of our house with pitch, so that the landlord
began to tell us we must leave. All this was set
going by Marfa Petrovna who managed to
slander Dounia and throw dirt at her in every
family. She knows everyone in the neighbour-
hood, and that month she was continually com-
ing into the town, and as she is rather talkative
and fond of gossiping about her family affairs
and particularly of complaining to all and each
of her husband—which is not at all right—so in
a short time she had spread her story not only
in the town, but over the whole surrounding
district. It made me ill, but Dounia bore it better
than I did, and if only you could have seen how
she endured it all and tried to comfort me and
cheer me up! She is an angel! But by God's
mercy, our sufferings were cut short: Mr.
Svidrigaïlov returned to his senses and re-
pented and, probably feeling sorry for Dounia,
he laid before Marfa Petrovna a complete and
unmistakable proof of Dounia's innocence, in
the form of a letter Dounia had been forced to
write and give to him, before Marfa Petrovna
came upon them in the garden. This letter,
which remained in Mr. Svidrigaïlov's hands
after her departure, she had written to refuse
personal explanations and secret interviews, for
which he was entreating her. In that letter she
reproached him with great heat and indigna-
tion for the baseness of his behaviour in regard
to Marfa Petrovna, reminding him that he was
the father and head of a family and telling him
how infamous it was of him to torment and
make unhappy a defenceless girl, unhappy
enough already. Indeed, dear Rodya, the letter
was so nobly and touchingly written that I sob-
bed when I read it and to this day I cannot read
it without tears. Moreover, the evidence of the
servants, too, cleared Dounia's reputation; they
had seen and known a great deal more than
Mr. Svidrigaïlov had himself supposed—as
indeed is always the case with servants. Marfa
Petrovna was completely taken aback, and 'a-
gain crushed' as she said herself to us, but she
was completely convinced of Dounia's inno-
cence. The very next day, being Sunday, she
went straight to the Cathedral, knelt down and
prayed with tears to Our Lady to give her
strength to bear this new trial and to do her
duty. Then she came straight from the Cathe-
dral to us, told us the whole story, wept bitterly
and, fully penitent, she embraced Dounia and
besought her to forgive her. The same morning
without any delay, she went round to all the
houses in the town and everywhere, shedding
tears, she asserted in the most flattering terms
Dounia's innocence and the nobility of her feel-
ings and her behavior. What was more, she
showed and read to everyone the letter in
Dounia's own handwriting to Mr. Svidrigaïlov
and even allowed them to take copies of it—
which I must say I think was superfluous. In
this way she was busy for several days in driv-
ing about the whole town, because some people
had taken offence through precedence having
been given to others. And therefore they had to
take turns, so that in every house she was ex-
pected before she arrived, and everyone knew
that on such and such a day Marfa Petrovna
would be reading the letter in such and such a
place and people assembled for every reading
of it, even many who had heard it several times
already both in their own houses and in other
people's. In my opinion a great deal, a very
great deal of all this was unnecessary; but that's
Marfa Petrovna's character. Anyway she suc-
ceeded in completely re-establishing Dounia's
reputation and the whole ignominy of this af-
fair rested as an indelible disgrace upon her
husband, as the only person to blame, so that I
really began to feel sorry for him; it was really
treating the crazy fellow too harshly. Dounia
was at once asked to give lessons in several
families, but she refused. All of a sudden eve-
ryone began to treat her with marked respect
and all this did much to bring about the event
by which, one may say, our whole fortunes are
now transformed. You must know, dear Rodya,
that Dounia has a suitor and that she has al-
ready consented to marry him. I hasten to tell
you all about the matter, and though it has
been arranged without asking your consent, I
think you will not be aggrieved with me or
with your sister on that account, for you will
see that we could not wait and put off our deci-
sion till we heard from you. And you could not
have judged all the facts without being on the
spot. This was how it happened. He is already
of the rank of a counsellor, Pyotr Petrovitch
Luzhin, and is distantly related to Marfa Pet-
rovna, who has been very active in bringing the
match about. It began with his expressing
through her his desire to make our acquaint-
ance. He was properly received, drank coffee
with us and the very next day he sent us a letter
in which he very courteously made an offer
and begged for a speedy and decided answer.
He is a very busy man and is in a great hurry to
get to Petersburg, so that every moment is pre-
cious to him. At first, of course, we were greatly
surprised, as it had all happened so quickly
and unexpectedly. We thought and talked it
over the whole day. He is a well-to-do man, to
be depended upon, he has two posts in the
government and has already made his fortune.
It is true that he is forty-five years old, but he is
of a fairly prepossessing appearance and might
still be thought attractive by women, and he is
altogether a very respectable and presentable
man, only he seems a little morose and some-
what conceited. But possibly that may only be
the impression he makes at first sight. And be-
ware, dear Rodya, when he comes to Peters-
burg, as he shortly will do, beware of judging
him too hastily and severely, as your way is, if
there is anything you do not like in him at first
sight. I give you this warning, although I feel
sure that he will make a favourable impression
upon you. Moreover, in order to understand
any man one must be deliberate and careful to
avoid forming prejudices and mistaken ideas,
which are very difficult to correct and get over
afterwards. And Pyotr Petrovitch, judging by
many indications, is a thoroughly estimable
man. At his first visit, indeed, he told us that he
was a practical man, but still he shares, as he
expressed it, many of the convictions 'of our
most rising generation' and he is an opponent
of all prejudices. He said a good deal more, for
he seems a little conceited and likes to be lis-
tened to, but this is scarcely a vice. I, of course,
understood very little of it, but Dounia ex-
plained to me that, though he is not a man of
great education, he is clever and seems to be
good-natured. You know your sister's charac-
ter, Rodya. She is a resolute, sensible, patient
and generous girl, but she has a passionate
heart, as I know very well. Of course, there is
no great love either on his side, or on hers, but
Dounia is a clever girl and has the heart of an
angel, and will make it her duty to make her
husband happy who on his side will make her
happiness his care. Of that we have no good
reason to doubt, though it must be admitted the
matter has been arranged in great haste. Be-
sides he is a man of great prudence and he will
see, to be sure, of himself, that his own happi-
ness will be the more secure, the happier
Dounia is with him. And as for some defects of
character, for some habits and even certain dif-
ferences of opinion—which indeed are inevita-
ble even in the happiest marriages—Dounia
has said that, as regards all that, she relies on
herself, that there is nothing to be uneasy
about, and that she is ready to put up with a
great deal, if only their future relationship can
be an honourable and straightforward one. He
struck me, for instance, at first, as rather
abrupt, but that may well